Lunchtime Antics
by JustAnotherAuthorDurping
Summary: There isn't a day at Princeton-Plainsboro when House doesn't cause some sort of uproar or ruckus in the hospital, particularly at his boss's expense. Rated T for language. Reviews are lovely.


A/N: Yes, I am sure you are all completely astounded to see a non-Sparrabeth fic from me but House is just such an addicting show and after watching all the episodes within a two week span, it does grow on you. Reviews are welcomed and critique is love. Thanks to **Zayz** for checking this over for me!

**Disclaimer: I don't own them. **

**Lunchtime Antics:**

"A hundred bucks says I can get this in Cuddy's cleavage."

House looks past Wilson's shoulder and at the Dean of Medicine calculatingly, fingering a pea he has taken from his plate, and contemplating just how hard he will have to throw it to land on the figurative bulls eye.

Wilson casts a glance behind himself and turns back to his chicken wrap warily, giving House a pointed look. His friend returns it mockingly.

"You can't ever leave her be for one day, can you?"

Without a moment of hesitation, House replies, "Nope." Feigning a look of concern, he continues, "Who else would be so selfless as to do this -?" and with that he tosses the pea, his gaze tearing from Wilson's only after the pea leaves his pointer and thumb.

The two watch as the vegetable remarkably (though perhaps not for House) sails across the air between the two tables and falls down the v-neck of Cuddy's white blouse, causing her and her lunch colleague to startle. Cuddy's jaw falls in a mix of shock and mortification and she immediately reaches for a napkin while vehemently apologizing to the older man who sits across from her. Cuddy's eyes dart away briefly and seem to automatically pinpoint on House's, her glare shooting red-hot daggers at him, and he nearly writhes in satisfaction.

When House and Wilson turn away from the scene, House gives one of his rare grins that resembles a teenager who has just gotten away with some grand prank.

"Dude - she is _so_ mad," he remarks animatedly, leaning forward in his seat; he is undoubtedly impressed with himself.

Wilson narrows his eyes and looks closely at his friend. "You really do get a perverse thrill from pissing off your boss so much, don't you? Have you ever considered engaging yourself in a valid hobby that isn't related to getting high off vicodin or driving those around you insane?"

"You forgot to mention the hookers and porn," House corrects, receiving a withering glower from an elderly doctor who happens to walk by at that moment.

"Of course. How stupid of me to forget your most complimenting pastime." Wilson shakes his head and takes another bite of his wrap. Through a mouthful of it, he inquires, "So why aren't you off treating some diagnostic mystery today?"

"Because," - House reaches over to Wilson's plate and steals a chip– "everyone is boring today. They're either already being diagnosed by some pompous white-coat or dead. And nothing is more boring then dead." He pops the chip into his mouth and steals another glimpse over Wilson's shoulder. "And here comes Satan – act surprised."

With her usual business-like stride, Cuddy approaches the table with her sharp eyes focused solely on House who looks back with the uttermost innocence. Wilson reluctantly prepares himself to witness yet another heated verbal spew in which the two shall throw snarky and frustrated (with the occasional sexual) comments at one another until one folds. Ah, employer employee relationships.

"Yes, mommy?" House inquires, gazing up at Cuddy with widening eyes of virtue, his hands folded in front of him like a schoolboy.

"I want to see you in my office in five minutes, House," Cuddy orders, her tone steely and exasperated. "And I expect you to make sure he does not go to hide it out in the coma patient's room," she adds to Wilson.

House makes a face. "Don't worry, I won't get lost. Your office is only, what, a forty-foot walk from here? That's actually about eighty feet in a cripple's measurement – you have to multiply everything by two because we have to put in _twice_ the effort then you _norms_." He scrutinizes Cuddy's appearance, assessing her from the bottom up in a quick flick of the eyes.

Cuddy arches her ebony eyebrows. "Right. I'll believe that when I see it." And with one last long look towards House, Cuddy pulls away from them and walks out of the cafeteria. The two watch her go, House's gaze lingering on her lean figure until she disappears past the door.

"That was surprisingly… short," points out Wilson.

"She's saving the big explosion for when she doesn't have you and the rest of the hospital staff witness me plow into her orally." House looks down briefly and then turns his narrowed orbs back onto Wilson. "Does everything I say always have some sexual twist to it?"

"Was it supposed to be discreet?"

"Is your grating aura of self-pity suppose to be discreet?"

Choosing that moment to ignore House's comments, Wilson rises from his seat and while fixing the cuff of his sleeve, tells the nuisance who is still sitting, "Go and see Cuddy, House." He fumbles for a second. "And at least I do something about it." He twists about to make his way back to his office.

"Wilson."

The oncologist turns back to find House holding out one hand open, his palm facing upwards.

"I believe I won our bet," he says, his expression the epitome of self-righteousness.

Perplexity overcomes Wilson's features. "But I didn't even…"

One look into House's icy irises tells Wilson that he is not going to get away with this unless his wallet is lighter then when it has first arrived. Making each of his movements filled with heavy displeasure to see if he can draw any bit of empathy from House, Wilson pulls out his black leather wallet and fishes out five crisp twenties, shoving them into House's palm.

"I'll leave you to dump the trays," are the final words Wilson utters before making his way out of the cafeteria, leaving a slowly beginning to become appalled House to himself.

Blatantly uncaring as to those about him, House shouts after Wilson, "How am I supposed to carry both trays and a cane? I'm crippled!" He receives no response save for the doors closing behind Wilson's coat and House leans back in his seat peeved.

Some people really did lack compassion towards people such as himself; it's not like he could _stack_ the trays, or anything.

House takes another minute to glare at those about him and then slowly wills himself to stand, using his left leg to lean his weight onto. He is about flee to catch his three o'clock soap (he doesn't have any other obligations, does he?) when a voice stops him.

"You gonna clear those?"

House veers about to see a short cafeteria worker looking at him expectantly and gesturing to the table he has just left.

"Didn't you just hear me like, five minutes ago?" The grizzled doctor lifts his cane into the air and waves it a few times, nearly hitting a nurse in the back of the head. "Crippled."

The cafeteria worker opens his mouth to stop him, but House is already limping towards the door, snagging a bag of chips on his way out, and telling the cashier to put it on Wilson's tab.

It's just another day at Princeton-Plainsboro.


End file.
